


in the midst of my lessening annoyance

by shortm000



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Child Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Healthy Relationships, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, affectionate tension, soft and squishy, steve harrington doesn't know he has anxiety, steve's rat parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23292037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shortm000/pseuds/shortm000
Summary: Steve Harrington never knew what it felt like to be understood until he sat face-to-face with Billy Hargrove on the most overcast Thursday on the whole fucking planet to read "Macbeth."
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 13
Kudos: 211





	in the midst of my lessening annoyance

**Author's Note:**

> a big TW for child abuse and descriptions of anxiety
> 
> this is the first non-sexual thing i’ve written in awhile, but in the midst of the coronavirus outbreak, all i wanted was a non-toxic relationship with 100% platonic and romantic intimacy (aka "not sexual at all"). i dare you to find sexual tension in this. i dare you ;)

Summer ended too fast. 

In the blink of an eye, Steve was sitting back in a classroom, watching the clock. It felt surreal, being subjected to that after everything he’d gone through. Doing algebra homework when he’d rather chase monsters with a nail-studded baseball bat; eating in the cafeteria around people completely oblivious to the devastating reality of Hawkins, Indiana. Everyone except Jonathan, Nancy, and Billy-fucking-Hargrove. 

Ms. Welch’s class was by far the worst of the bunch. English class, the normal kind–not the  _ smart person English _ Nancy and Jonathan were taking. Sometimes, they made him feel stupid without realizing it, just like his dad. 

His dad did realize it though. That made it worse. 

That’s where he found himself on the most overcast November Thursday on the whole fucking planet. He’d already traced over all the desk graffiti three times–in pencil, pen, and highlighter–and he was positive he was five seconds away from dying of boredom. Which was a horrible way to die. So not cool. 

Of course, Ms. Welch was droning on and on about some big, fat assignment. She droned often. To be fair, most of it was important information, but Steve couldn’t focus. Not for longer than a few sentences. 

And when his mind drifted, it drifted far–much farther than the Upside Down. It skimmed over the entirety of  _ Baa Baa Black Sheep _ twenty times over, picked up Ms. Welch’s spinny chair and dropped it once, twice, seven times (he counted), and wouldn’t let go of the image of Ms. Welch with her top off, something so jarring he nearly broke his pencil in half. It wouldn’t give him a fucking break, and he wondered if maybe he would like the class more if he could listen. 

_ “Quarter final…tragedy…60%...quiet down please…partner assignment…i  _ said ‘ _ quiet down’...”  _

Ms. Welch motioned to the chalkboard with a yardstick and adjusted her glasses for the seventeenth time in thirty minutes. Steve chewed his lip. 

_ Listen.  _

“I will now be assigning your partners. There will be no girls working with boys. There will be no partner changes. I don’t need another disruption.” 

Her voice became clearer, much to Steve’s relief. He didn’t care how throaty and grating it was–it was grounding. 

“Tyler and Christopher. Joshua and Lucas. Jessica and Delany.” 

Steve leaned back in his chair and set his pencil at the corner of his desk. He didn’t want to fidget with it. Figiting is dumb. 

“Hailey and Karen. Jamal and Hank. Billy and Steve.” 

“What?!” 

It took Steve a minute to realize it was him who said it. His ears tingled at the dusting of hushed laughter that scattered across the room. Ms. Welch’s reaction was still the worst. 

“I don’t have time for your outbursts today, Mr. Harrington. Be quiet.” 

Hearing it, his heart  _ ached, _ mostly because he’d heard it before twice a week his entire life. It made him not want to pick up the phone, but if he tried to ignore it, there would be double the phone calls. Double the lectures. Double the- 

He felt stupid for the lump in his throat. 

After class, he lagged behind and slid to Ms. Welch’s desk timidly. 

“Ms. Welch?” 

“Yes, Steven?” 

_ ‘Steven.’ _ Fuck her. Only his parents call him Steven. 

He took a breath. “I can’t work with Billy.” 

Ms. Welch gathered a thick stack of papers from her desk with thin, nimble fingers and straightened them. Probably meant for intimidation purposes, Steve figured. He held his ground. 

“What do you mean you  _ can’t? _ ” 

The sharpness in her voice was bone-chilling, but still not half as bad as working on a huge assignment with Billy Hargrove. 

Steve had seen him a few times since Billy’s especially  _ bad _ first impressions. They’d even engaged in awkward conversation outside the arcade. Admittedly, it was much less hostile than when they’d first become acquainted, but it was still  _ Billy Hargrove. _ He was like, scarier than the Mind Flayer.

“He’s an asshole!” 

And that was a terrible choice of words, Steve realized a second later. Just another one of his  _ outbursts _ . Pointless and self-destructive. 

Ms. Welch pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and stared at Steve coldly. “And you,” she said, “are using profanity around your superior. You’re working with Billy. Goodbye.” 

“But-” 

“You can go now, Mr. Harrington. Don’t make me tell you again.” 

Steve left, too angry to be fearful. 

Before long, the day had come to stand face-to-face with Billy. “The day” was Friday. It was overcast, too. Really fit the mood. 

Billy showed up ten minutes late to their meeting spot, a grimy diner in walking distance from Hawkins High. When he got there, he was sweaty. Post-workout sweaty from the looks of it. His hair was extra curly, and his cologne extra strong. 

“Well  _ you’re _ early.” 

That was the first thing he said. Steve’s jaw almost hit the floor. 

“Early? Really?” he said. “We said 4:00 and it’s 4:10.”

Billy grinned. “Well I’m here now, ain’t I,  _ Steve? _ Let’s get on with the project.” 

They chose the cleanest table, one at the far corner of the diner, and whipped out their copies of  _ Macbeth. _ The inside cover of Billy’s was covered in doodles. Presumably drawn by Billy. A good 80% were variously-patterned cubes. 

With all the surrounding noise, concentrating was even harder than usual. Steve could hear every sound in the diner. He ordered a milkshake to keep himself busy. 

He looked at Billy interestedly when the waitress arrived. Billy avoided his eyes. 

“You don’t want anything?” Steve said. 

“Nah, I’m good.” 

He didn’t look good. Steve ordered two burgers even though he only wanted one. Then they got back to working. Or  _ trying to work, _ at least. 

They never got past,  _ “So…what’re we gonna do for this?” _

“Dunno.” 

Billy tilted his head back and shook his hair out of his eyes. It had gotten longer and more golden since summertime, more and more as it dried. He should have cut it. Then Steve wouldn’t be so  _ distracted. _

“Let’s just read the book and write about it,” Billy said.

“That’s just a book report. Ms. Welch said  _ ‘No book reports or you can kiss your scholarships goodbye.’” _

Billy picked up his checkered napkin and draped it theatrically across the table.  _ “‘If I get one more book report, I’ll have no more hair left to yank out.’  _ S’she really gonna say that when we all know she grades like shit either way?” 

“You’re just saying that ‘cause you  _ suck at essays.” _ Steve smirked. Playfully. It just came out–so  _ unlike  _ him. 

“At least she likes me.” 

“Well, you flirt with her, so of course she does.” 

“Hey, I got charm without trying!” Billy lifted his glass and drank all the water inside in one go, fast enough to send a lazy stream down his chin. He barely swallowed. 

_ ‘Charm.’  _ Steve would laugh in his face if he didn’t think, however reluctantly, that Billy still looked like a God either way. 

The waitress returned shyly and Billy slid the empty glass cooly to the back of the table. He cocked his head back and grinned, showed off his sharp canines. She blushed. 

He was definitely trying. No one looks at a girl and just  _ does that. _ Steve sure didn’t. He smiled politely, took the plate out of her tiny hands–really cute, actually; Billy had good taste–and thanked her. She left quickly. 

“Way to  _ not try, _ man.”

“I don’t gotta try with cuties like her.” 

“And yet, you still did.” 

Talking to Billy was fun. Fun. 

The next half-hour of their time was spent eating–Billy took the second burger without asking like he knew Steve’s intentions–and talking mindlessly and not looking at  _ Macbeth _ for even a second. It never occurred to Steve that they were probably wasting their time and doing exactly what Ms. Welch was trying to prevent, but he wouldn’t have cared if it did. Talking to Billy was fun. No big deal. 

Steve finished his milkshake through Billy’s completely unnecessary comments about how it was the most emasculating beverage known to man, and they finally got somewhere. 

“Let’s just work on this tomorrow.” Billy groaned dramatically. “Why did you choose somewhere with  _ food _ ? I just worked out like an hour ago-” 

“Two hours.” 

“Whatever. Shut the fuck up.” Billy flicked Steve in the forehead. And still,  _ that _ was the least violent Steve had seen him in… _ ever. _

“I just worked out like  _ two  _ hours ago and now I gained like, twenty pounds from this garbage-” 

“That you ate-” 

“-so that’s twenty pounds I will never be able to work off.” 

“Wow. That  _ sucks. _ Really, I mourn your loss.” Steve clasped his hands together and sighed deeply. Stared up at the ceiling.  _ “Please, God, if you’re listening, help this poor, helpless boy lose twenty pounds.” _

They fumbled out the exit and smiled at the cool breeze that blew their hair back. The overcast sky still fit the mood, but it looked  _ prettier  _ now. It wasn’t just a drab mat of gray. It had swirls of black and white, too, creamer stirred halfway into black coffee. Fresh and clean. Friendly. 

Steve chewed his lip again.  _ “So... _ d’you wanna work at your house or mine?” 

Billy chewed his lip, too. “Mine’s fine. My dad’s not too bad with friends over, most of the time.” 

“Let’s do your place. My parents are home.” 

A crease cut across Billy’s already-furrowed brow. “What, is that a problem?” 

The sky darkened.  _ What, is that a problem? _ Yes. Or no. They’ll talk to Steve. They might be nice. They’ll talk to Billy. They’ll  _ definitely _ be nice. But thinking about it filled Steve’s stomach with cold water and frozen wood chips.  _ Let’s do your place. My parents are home. My parents are home.  _

A fire hydrant sat right behind Billy’s shoulder about five feet away. It attracted Steve’s focus. Yellow. Ridged. Kind of dick-shaped. Dick. Weird midnight boners. Headaches. Nightmares. Parents. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. 

“Hey.” 

Steve looked up. His body didn’t feel real. He was all metal pipes.  _ Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy. Billy.  _ His brain wouldn’t let him drop  _ Billy _ and he really didn’t appreciate the inconvenience, no matter how used to it he was. He was sick of goosebumps and agonizing repetition. 

He gritted his teeth. “Yeah?” 

Billy flipped his copy of  _ Macbeth _ casually from one hand to the other and grinned, cocked his head back. “See you tomorrow. My house. Two o’clock?” 

All at once, Steve’s whole body relaxed, shockingly fast. He swayed lightly.  _ My dad’s not too bad with friends over. _ “Yep. Two o’clock. I’ll be there.” 

At one o’clock, Steve tried on three different outfits. Jeans with red shirt. Jeans with yellow sweater. Shorts with blue striped shirt (shorts? In Autumn? Really, Steve?). He hated all of them and how much he actually cared about looking presentable. 

He was going to Billy Hargrove’s house and in no way, shape, or form should that qualify for a  _ nice jeans _ day. That’s what his mom called them: his  _ nice jeans, _ only because  _ she _ bought them for him. They looked stupid and weirdly formal. He scrapped that idea. 

At one-thirty, he left for Billy’s house wearing the jeans–the  _ not nice _ ones–and the yellow sweater that made him look strong and put-together, completely forgetting Billy lived ten minutes away. So he arrived at 1:40. 

When he knocked pathetically, Max opened the door. She looked him up and down, squinting, and then said, “Nice sweater.” As if it wasn’t actually nice. His face burned. 

“It was my only clean sweater. And it’s cold outside. Why are you looking at me like that?” 

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m not looking at you like anything. Also, Billy’s down the hall and to the left.” 

“Oh, you know about-?” 

“Yeah, he told me to get the door so he wouldn’t have to leave his room. It was really weird.” She opened the door wider. “Anyways, come in.” 

As many times as he’d picked up Max, he’d never really looked inside the Hargrove Household. It was small and cluttered. Papers covered the coffee table and the clock’s ticking was deafening. He’d never been good with small noises like that. 

And yet, he didn’t want to leave. Crazy. 

He walked to Billy’s room slowly enough to skim the pictures hanging on either side of the narrow hallway. Most were chipping paintings. A few photographs were displayed–mostly of Max and Billy’s dad’s wife–but everything was still so lifeless. His skin prickled. He knew Billy’s family was fucked up, but he never thought it was  _ just Billy _ they hated. 

Everything melted away when he opened Billy’s door though. He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, hunched over, and flipping through  _ Macbeth. _ Reading. The exact opposite of what Steve was expecting. 

“Wow, Steve, knock much?” 

“No, I’m a party crasher. I never knock.” 

“You crashed twenty minutes early.” 

Steve took his shoes off and flopped down onto Billy’s bed. It took him a minute to remember he and Billy might as well be new to each other and people who are new to each other don’t lie on each other’s beds like they live there. 

It should have felt weird. He really wanted it to feel weird. 

“How much have you read?” Steve asked. 

Billy grinned. “Like…a little bit.” 

“Were you not just reading one second ago?” 

“I wanted it to look like I was doing shit.” 

“Well good job then, because I believed it one hundred percent.” 

Billy laughed–like, actually  _ laughed _ –and Steve’s stomach flipped. Which, obviously, is never the right reaction to someone laughing. It’s the weird reaction. Steve cursed whatever the fuck part of his brain fucked up his feelings. 

“D’you just wanna read for a little while then? ‘Cause, y’know, we’re very not-impressive.” 

“Yeah, and? I’ll get a C.  _ Yay, Billy! A C! You’re basically Einstein! _ ” 

Steve swallowed heavily. His stomach hurt. “My parents want at least a B average. Which is _bullshit_ because I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet, but I’m pretty dumb.”   
Dumb because calling himself dumb sounded like a plea for sympathy, and Billy didn’t seem like the type of person to pity anyone. If it wasn’t for the humorous edge to it, he'd probably have glared at him and wholeheartedly agreed. 

But he didn’t. 

“If you’re dumb, I’m a fuckin’ vegetable. Do you know how many D’s I have? Three. That’s horrible.” 

Steve felt thankfulness in every joint in his body. Wobbly. 

He smiled, and snatched Billy’s copy of  _ Macbeth _ , replacing it with his own. Billy huffed, but didn’t try to take it back. 

“Yeah, that  _ is _ pretty horrible. Which classes?” 

“Biology, Personal Finance, and English.”

Coincidentally, those were the three classes Steve was failing the most at, especially, much to Father’s dismay, Personal Finance. 

Still, he smacked Billy’s knee with  _ Macbeth _ ’s floppy cover and said, “Ooo,  _ Personal Finance. _ The most exciting class in the school. And you voluntarily took it?” 

Billy smacked him back. “Obviously not. My dad said I should take it. He doesn’t know I have a D. If he did, my face would be  _ fucked. _ ” 

The way he said it–light-hearted, like it wasn’t  _ bad _ –made Steve shiver with worry and understanding. His dad rarely hit him since the “physical discipline” he’d enforced for three years too long, but he wasn’t sympathetic over bad grades. So harsh that Steve couldn’t think about it without his mind blurring. 

“Fucking God,  _ don’t tell him then. _ ” 

“Wasn’t gonna. D’you think I’m  _ that _ stupid?” 

Steve leaned back onto Billy’s springy bed and crossed his arms behind his head. Let  _ Macbeth _ lay upside down on his chest.  _ “No,” _ he said, and smirked. “You’re fucking Einstein.” 

It took them a minute to get fully settled with their reading but after a while, they got into a groove. Sort of. Steve spent more time looking at Billy’s margin doodles than actually reading. Maybe he would have gotten on track if Billy wasn’t proving to be so  _ weird. _ He seemed to have an obsession with cubes, tiny houses, stick figures, nothing demonstrating talent, but still making Steve’s stomach do that weird  _ thing _ again. 

He ignored it. 

Billy’s bed was comfortable and his room was surprisingly clean. The walls were littered with posters, including one of a half-naked girl, but the floor was clean. The bed was half-made. Something about it felt unsafe. As unsafe as he could feel with Billy Hargrove (which apparently wasn’t very unsafe). 

“Gimme my book back. I’m bored.” 

Steve did. 

Billy lasted ten minutes without talking. A personal record for him. 

“This is so fuckin’ boring.  _ Macbeth _ is boring. Fuck Shakespeare.” 

“We kinda need to read it though.”

He sighed exaggeratedly and kicked his legs up to rest on top of Steve’s. A golden curl hung down his forehead, tracing the scar between his eyebrows. His eyes were closed. 

“Do we though?” 

Momentarily, Steve thought of pushing his legs off. It was overruled milliseconds later. The way he was sitting was inexplicably comfortable. That kind of sturdy pressure always kept him down on earth when his thoughts were getting out of hand. 

“I mean…” Steve let his heavy head fall back and stared up at the textured ceiling. “We don’t  _ have _ to. Today, at least-” 

_ “Billy! Are you upstairs?” _

Billy tore his legs off of Steve’s at lightning speed and crawled back against the headboard of his bed. His face was relaxed. A bit distant, but not  _ scared. _

_ “Yeah!” _ he shouted. 

_ “Y’didn’t go in for work today, did you.”  _

His finger twitched.  _ “No, I forgot.”  _

For an hour-long second, the house silenced completely. Then- 

_ “Forgot, eh? Lazy piece of shit. Don’t know why I even let you stay here.” _

Billy’s face stayed eerily calm.  _ “Okay.”  _

_ “Don’t you fuckin’ ‘okay’ me. Shoulda given you away the day your mother left. ‘Cause you know what you are? A dead weight. S’right, two hundred pounds I gotta lug around.”  _

He was not. He was one hundred eighty-nine pounds. 

_ “Okay. My friend’s over.”  _

Surely, he’d get nicer. 

_ “‘Friend.’ Really? Tell him to leave.”  _

He didn’t get nicer. Steve couldn’t piece together even a sentence in his head. What was he supposed to say about that? ‘ _ Sorry? _ ’

Billy said, “You should just go. He’s being such a bitch today, s’better to just go along with it,” and grinned through clenched teeth. His shoulders were drawn up defensively. 

“Really?” Steve winced at how stupidly concerned he sounded. Billy didn’t want concern, he knew that much. He toughened up his voice. “I did jack shit. I just meant maybe we should get something productive done. Or something.” 

_ “I’m waiting. Get your little friend outta here right now.”  _

_ “Gimme a minute. He lost his glasses.”  _

The corner of Steve’s mouth twitched upward.  _ Gimme a minute. He lost his glasses.  _ Steve didn’t wear glasses. 

“Okay,  _ productive,  _ umm… I’m blanking.” 

If Steve’s dad called him a  _ lazy piece of shit, _ he’d have been blanking too. 

“Let’s just meet up tomorrow.” A hurricane brewed in Steve’s stomach. He swallowed down bitter bile. “My house. Whatever time–I’ll be there all day.” 

Working on their project at his house didn’t warrant his fear. It was stupid. He wasn’t  _ abused. _ Not at all. It was stupid.

But the look of relief that washed over Billy’s face was worth every wave of dread hitting him. His parents were rocky, but Billy’s dad was a whole other story. He wanted to take Billy as far away from his house as possible. 

“Okay. Okay! Sounds good. Take this.” He handed  _ Macbeth _ over to Steve. It hit his knuckle roughly–would probably cause a bruise. A part of Steve wanted it to. “Oh, and this.” 

From his bedside table, he extracted a clunky pair of glasses, which he handed to Steve proudly. Accompanied by the brightest smile Steve had ever seen on him. The hurricane in him bled into sunshine.

“Thanks, Billy. ‘Kay, I need to go,” Steve said. “See you tomorrow.” 

As he was walking out the bedroom door, Billy pat his shoulder. No matter how traumatic that visit was, Steve couldn’t stop smiling. 

When he got home, he skipped up the stairs, past his parents, who were sharing a bottle of wine with their rich neighbors. Past minimalist artwork that cost a fortune and professional family photos. Past a picture frame concealing a rugged hole in the wall. Past six empty rooms. 

In the safety of his own room, Steve opened  _ Macbeth. _ It was Billy’s copy. 

There were ten more cubes lined up precisely in two rows of five–particularly  _ neat  _ cubes. Weirdly neat considering the sloppiness of all the others. Underneath them was Billy’s hideous handwriting. Adoringly Illegible. 

_ Or are you aught _

_ That man may question? You seem to understand me  _

_ By each at once her choppy finger laying upon her skinny lips. You should be women,  _

_ And yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so _ _. _

Steve woke up with a blinding headache; that was the first shitty part of his day. The second was his mother. 

She had barged into his room without knocking before the sun rose and lectured him about his grades for twenty minutes. His two C’s were shameful and careless and  _ no child of mine will be getting away with that. _ Every time he opened his mouth to get his two cents in, she narrowed her eyes and  _ scowled. _

He was  _ disappointing _ and  _ lazy  _ and  _ incompetent. _

So when Steve said, “A friend’s coming over soon. That’s okay right?” she was not impressed. 

“A  _ friend over? _ Really? I lecture you about your grades and now you want to bring a friend over?” She crossed her arms. “Absolutely not.” 

“It’s for a school project on  _ Macbeth. _ I barely know him.” 

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “After all the trouble you cause me, you expect me to believe  _ this _ ? You really are exhausting, Steven.” 

_ It’s just my mom. It’s just my mom. It’s just my mom,  _ Steve reminded himself over and over because Father was worse and he should be lucky it’s her and not him.  _ It’s just my mom. _

As if on cue, though, Father appeared in the doorway. His room went cold. 

“I heard a ruckus up here and I thought I’d see what it’s about,” he said. Removed his reading glasses and stared at Steve with caustic disapproval.

In the half-second Steve met Father’s eyes, he saw nothing. 

His mother stepped away from his bed robotically and addressed him. “Steven wants to bring a friend over today.” 

Regardless of how much of a pussy it would make him, Steve felt that crying in frustration was justified. No matter how much they interrogated him, these kinds of abrasive conversations never stopped being upsetting. 

He usually didn’t cry. He didn’t know why  _ then _ was any different. 

“He’s not a friend. I barely know him. We’re working on a school project about  _ Macbeth, _ I  _ told  _ you that already-” 

“Be quiet, Steven.” 

He shut his mouth so hard his jaw popped. 

“What’s the project about?” 

Steve shut his eyes. They didn’t exist, his parents, and neither did he. He was watching his life play out on a staticked television screen, a psychological thriller with terrible ratings. With his eyes closed, he could only hear its background music. 

At that moment, the screen was fuzzy and the scene was silent. 

“A book report,” he said. Quiet and  _ respectful _ . He could barely hear himself. “Textual analysis, that kind of thing. There’s a partner presentation. It’s worth 60% of my grade.” 

_ No book reports or you can kiss your scholarships goodbye.  _

_ If I get one more book report, I’ll have no more hair left to yank out. _

When he opened his eyes, Father was gone. His mother sighed. “ _ Oh my God, _ what’s your friend’s name?” 

“Billy.” 

She sighed again, stepped forward, and brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. He shivered. Had to stop himself from scratching goosebumps off his arms. They itched. His forehead itched, too, where she touched it. That was why his eyes watered. That was it. 

“Okay. He can come over.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Clean your room. It looks horrible. I won’t have anyone enter this house if it looks like this.” 

“Okay.” 

_ Mom. _ He had to stop himself from saying it. _ Mama _ was what he called her until he was five, until Father told him it sounded girly. A few years later, he gave up  _ Mom _ , too, all on his own. He couldn’t place why it started feeling so wrong. 

_ After all the trouble you cause me, you expect me to believe this? _ But he’d tried so hard to stay out of their way for ten years. Living like they weren’t his parents felt like a fantasy, a fucked-up good dream. That was something to be guilty about. He didn’t deserve to say it.  _ Mom. _

But a thin slice of his mind tickled his ears, and it told him they had the same dream, too. 

She left without another word. And it hurt, but Billy was coming, and in two days Billy had become something to look forward to. 

To Steve’s dismay, Father got to the door before he had the chance. He saw Billy’s forced smile and  _ nice _ attire–no too-tight jeans or casually mudstained denim jacket that day–and decided he didn’t despise him. On the contrary, he offered him a glass of water and took his coat. 

He was charming. Trying to be. 

His mother was just as bad. He batted his eyelashes and, when he told a terrible joke, she giggled, said she wished they could keep  _ him _ here.  _ Instead of Steven. _ She didn’t say it, but it was there. 

Billy heard it too. He chuckled charismatically, said,  _ “I agree,” _ and followed Steve to his still-dirty bedroom. The minute the door closed, though, he scoffed. _ “ _ Are they always like that?”

And Steve’s heart soared. He’d never had someone on his side before. Tommy and Carol loved his parents.  _ Nancy _ loved his parents. He didn’t even need to tell Billy about what they were normally like for him to hate them. 

“With company.” 

“God, that sucks.” 

Like Steve had, Billy belly-flopped onto his bed casually, head-first. He plunged his face deep into his bedsheets and threw  _ Macbeth _ to the side. Kicked his shoes off. “Did you read any?” he said. 

_ That man may question? You seem to understand me-  _

“Some of it. S’so fuckin’ boring, I fell asleep toward the end.” 

_ You should be women-  _

“ _ ‘Tragedy.’ _ It’s a tragedy alright.  _ Most boring book ever written. _ Shakespeare’s pretty fuckin’ tragic for this one,” Billy said. 

_ And yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so. _

Steve had never been the best at textual analysis. 

He fell back onto his bed beside Billy and retrieved his discarded book from behind his pillow. Flipped through the pages. Like Billy’s book, Steve’s was well-graffitied, though there were less cubes and more smiley faces, boxy houses, weird  _ S _ ’s. It was as if his intention was never to read, but to cover as much of each page with ink as he could without blotting out the words. 

And that had no business making Steve’s chest ache. It really didn’t. 

That wasn’t a big deal anyway, though, because for the first time in three days, they quieted. Billy filled the silence with the crinkling of turning pages– _actually_ _reading._ He was actually reading, and that was more distracting than his loud voice. Every time he tried to decipher a paragraph, Billy turned another page. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. Another. 

So Steve’s brain shut down. A gray film painted over his pupils, seeped into them, clogging them like the shower drain in Hawkins High’s grimy locker room, and his skin tightened around his face. He wasn’t overwhelmed anymore. He wasn’t anything anymore. 

God, it was stupid how easily that happened.

His emotions were distancing rapidly, but from the back of his head he still felt blind frustration. This happened sometimes and it certainly wasn’t the worst thing his body put him through, but the timing was _all off._ _Billy had become something to look forward to_ and the thought of wasting him on three hundred miles of distance made his skin crawl. 

The crinkle of Billy’s progress was a thinly-sliced echo. Steve wanted to cry.

_ Or are you aught? Aught? Alught? Alrught? Alright?  _

_ “Are you alright?” _

It took Steve a minute to realize the crinkling had stopped, and Billy was staring at him. At his shoulder. Which was weird. 

_ “Why’re you looking at my shoulder?”  _

Billy smiled. Steve couldn’t quite tell through his blurred vision, but it didn’t look like a pity-smile. It didn’t look like a pity smile. It didn’t look like a pity smile. 

It was pretty. 

_ “I dunno,” _ he said.  _ “I don’t like people fuckin’ staring at me when I’m feeling weird.” _

Feeling weird. Steve was feeling weird. 

And Billy’s face was slowly coming into focus. 

_ You seem to understand me.  _

“Let’s just read, okay?” Steve said. Changing the subject was safer. Reading fucking  _ Macbeth _ was safer. Billy was safer, and it didn’t make any sense. 

_ Bullshit. _

_ You’re bullshit.  _

Steve bit his upper lip, sucked in his panic, and tried not to wish he was out of it again. He and Nancy had broken up and he truly didn’t love her anymore, but he was  _ bullshit _ and  _ why the fuck is it Billy? Why is he making me think of Nancy? _

“Steve.” 

He wasn’t going to look at Billy. He didn’t want to look at Billy. 

“ _ Steve.” _

_ Fuck Billy, this is bullshit. _

_ “Steve-”  _

_ “What? _ ” 

“Oh my God, turn around.” Billy huffed, cocky-eyed, and nudged at Steve’s shoulder.  _ “Yeah, turn around. _ I don’t have all day.” 

They didn’t have all day, that was for sure. Billy had a shitty dad to get back to and Steve had two C’s to raise. In a week, their project would be due. Time was short. Steve turned around. 

“What’s this about?” 

“I’m sitting behind you.” 

Steve grinned teasingly. “What, you lonely?” 

“Shut  _ up, God,  _ you’re fucking annoying, did you know that?” 

If anyone else had said it, Steve would be self-destructing over something like that, being called annoying. It was just when Billy said it.  _ How  _ he said it. Kind of like Steve wasn’t annoying at all. 

“No, tell me more.” 

“Fuck, sit still!” 

Steve leaned back and shimmied against Billy’s shoulder.  _ “Sit still?” _

Even though he didn’t know where Billy was going, he let him squeeze his shoulders and stop him. Let him scoot back until his back was pressed against Steve’s. Let him reach over his shoulder and take Steve’s entire face into his hand. Squeeze it. Exhale. Relax. Easy. Easy.  _ It’s easy. _

Nancy made it hard. She was so cute and smart that she was almost scary. Definitely intimidating. It was easy to play it cool–being cocky was his forte and no  _ girl  _ could change that–and easy to climb up her window and be a dumb teenager with her, but when he looked at her, it felt like he was having a heart attack. He sweated and practiced all the conversations he wanted to have with her to his bedroom wall at 1:00 AM. Nancy wasn’t scary, but relaxing was hard. 

Billy didn’t make it hard. He’d been around him civilly for no more than three days and he didn’t know him all that well and he leaned his head back on his shoulder and laughed. There were no  _ butterflies _ in his stomach. He felt like he was having a heart attack and sweating, but no more than usual. Maybe less than usual. All that panic he felt was just an inconvenience. 

He was comparing Billy to Nancy again. They weren’t the same. There was nothing connecting them. Nothing. And he wanted to be confused, but he was only  _ happy. _

Happy and comfortable. Steve never knew sitting back-to-back felt so good. Billy wasn’t even that warm–his shirt was too thick to transfer that much heat–but he was sturdy and the view of the ceiling he got from resting his heavy, heavy, heavy head on Billy’s shoulder was magical. He didn’t want to move. 

“Billy?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Can you read it to me?” 

For a moment, Billy was silent. Then he leaned forward, stretched like chewed gum, strangely flexible, and grabbed his book. When he leaned back, Steve fell farther onto him than before. Stretched out along his curved spine, shitty posture. 

Nice. He smelled nice. Normally he smelled a bit sweaty, but then, he was all shiny and clean. 

Steve hoped he smelled nice, too. 

“It’s a play, I can barely read it in my head.” 

“Have you tried reading it out loud?” 

Billy nudged Steve with his shoulder and sighed dramatically. “Why would I do that?” 

“Why wouldn’t you?” 

“‘Cause it’s a play, dumbass.” 

“Then do different voices for the different people. I won’t insult them, I promise.” 

“I don’t believe you.” 

Still, he heard paper crinkle. The classic _Macbeth_ sound that he only recognized because he hadn’t picked up another book in months. _Ha._ _Victory._

Billy groaned, dissolved into relaxed laughter, and said,  _ “Okay, _ so now three witches enter-” 

“Oh my God, you’re starting from the  _ beginning! _ How far do you think I got?” 

“Not past the beginning. Now shut up. Okay, so three witches enter.” He cleared his throat.  _ “When shall we three met again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?  _ Oh, that was the first one. And the second one says,  _ ‘When the hurly-burly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won-’” _

“What the fuck is  _ hurly-burly? _ ” 

“I dunno, I think it’s when an annoying dumbass won’t shut up.” 

“Fine,  _ I get it. _ Keep reading.” 

Steve never wanted Billy to put  _ Macbeth _ down ever again. He was doing the  _ stupidest _ voices for each witch–one had a deep, gruff voice that Steve couldn’t stop laughing over–and he never once stumbled. It was the opposite of aggressive Billy, beginning-of-Summer Billy. He liked this one. 

_ “Doubtful it stood, as two spent swimmers that do cling together and choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald-” _

He liked this one. 

_ “Worthy to be a rebel, for to that the multiplying villainies of nature do swarm upon him from the Western Isles-” _

He liked this one. 

_ “And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, showed like a rebel’s whore. But all’s too weak; for brave Macbeth-” _

Steve rolled around Billy’s shoulder to the vacant spot next to him, grabbed  _ Macbeth _ with one hand, and Billy’s face with the other. If he took the time to look at Billy, at what he was doing, he’d pussy out, so he didn’t. 

He kissed Billy Hargrove. And not  _ gentle  _ either. 

Out of nowhere, Steve forgot how to kiss  _ exceptionally well _ , so he kissed  _ his best _ and tried to coordinate setting  _ Macbeth _ on his bed as gently as he could with his eyes closed. With Billy’s lips on his, kissing him back, exhaling into his mouth. 

Steve’s shoulder was bent uncomfortably at a weird angle and his leg was falling asleep, but Billy didn’t forget how to kiss  _ exceptionally well _ , so he felt better than okay. He tipped Steve’s chin back and rested a tentative hand on his knee. 

_ You should be women, and yet your beards forbid me to interpret that you are so. _

Well…it’s not like Billy had a beard or anything. 

When Steve pulled away, lips tingling, Billy cocked his head to the side and grinned questioningly.  _ “Steve?” _ he sang.  _ “What was that?” _

Steve wiped a line of spit off his chin with his shirtsleeve and raised his eyebrows. “What was what?” 

_ “You kissed me.” _

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Was it the witch voice? Did that turn you on?” 

Steve gasped and clutched his chest. “How did you know?” 

“I dunno, I was trying to make it hot. Just wishful thinking, I guess.” 

Billy pushed at his ass as he was crawling back behind him. Poked the side of his head. Grabbed his hair loosely and moved his head back onto his shoulder. Then he picked up the book and flipped back to page 9. 

He tipped his head back next to Steve’s.

“You know we still gotta do a project on this shit right?”

**Author's Note:**

> with my mental health journey, it's been so hard to write anything. this is honestly the first thing i've written in months, so i hope you enjoyed it! constructive criticism is much appreciated! 
> 
> stay safe, stay indoors, and wash your hands :)


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